


The Privileges of Rank

by Smuttysmutwriter



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Body Horror, Getting Together, M/M, Nudity, Religion, Religious Guilt, Some politics, post episode 6x06, the author attempting something a bit more lovecraftian with the Founders, transactional sex, weird cardassian gender stuff, weyoun as a slightly more competent version of littlefinger
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-24
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:54:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28956750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Smuttysmutwriter/pseuds/Smuttysmutwriter
Summary: After the retreat from Terok Nor, the Cardassian Union is in turmoil without its leader Gul Dukat. Weyoun is tasked with ensuring a smooth transition of power to the Female Founder's next leader of choice.
Relationships: Damar/Weyoun (Star Trek)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 41





	1. Wonder and Obedience

**Author's Note:**

> Going to pop a trigger warning up here for some weird body horror stuff from the Female Founder. I hope you guys like eyeballs and T E E T H.

Damar shoves his way through Airlock 5 just before the doors close, breathing heavily, hands shaking.

“Go! Just go now!” he snaps at the shuttle pilot, the Cardassian jumping to attention and starting the process of undocking from Terok Nor, not even questioning the order.

The Founder, Weyoun resting on his knees at her feet, watches carefully as Damar sits down in one of the shuttle seats then immediately gets up again, pacing back and forth.

“Where’s Dukat?” she asks after a moment.

“He’s…” Damar looks at her and even the Founder, not well versed in the emotions of solids, sees the panic and pain rushing around behind his eyes.

“He’s not coming.”

“What do you mean he’s not coming?” another of the Cardassian officers in the shuttle asks, Gul Pirak she thinks his name is.

“Exactly what I said!” Damar snarls, rage quickly smothering the vulnerability of fear, “He has abandoned us! He chose that half-breed bastard of his over the great state of Cardassia!”

This causes a gasp and murmur from the Cardassians gathered in the shuttle. The Founder raises the place on her forehead where eyebrows would be if she chose to have them (such expressive little strips of fuzz, maybe she’ll manifest some later). That is…unexpected news. Not entirely unwelcome…but unexpected. Dukat had been hard to control at the best of times, and he had become increasingly erratic in those final weeks on the station.

She places a hand on Weyoun’s head to get his attention, gesturing him up. In a smooth move he unfolds himself from the floor and bends his ear close to her mouth. She constricts her vocal cords, shifting them to produce a pitch she knows only Weyoun will be able to hear.

“Watch that one.” She gestures towards Damar. “Very carefully.”

~*~*~

A few days after they are returned safely to Cardassian space, the Founder sends for Weyoun to attend to her.

Weyoun walks in to her quarters and comes face to face with a sehlat.

He bows his head, “Apologies Founder, I’ll return when you’ve finished exercising.”

“No no, Weyoun. Stay.” The sehlat starts to grow eyes all over its body, all of them staring straight at the Vorta. “I have come to a decision about who will next lead the Cardassian Union.”

Weyoun bows again, hands in the correct position of gratitude and supplication, as the many-eyed sehlat collapses inwards into a pool of greyish, dirty water. “Your wisdom is unparalleled.”

The water bubbles, turning into thick red blood, “It will be Gul Damar.”

“Damar?” Weyoun would not normally question his God, but Damar is not one of the obvious choices. Yes, he was Dukat’s adjutant and clearly would have remained as one of the higher ups of the Cardassian government, but there were several others more established and with stronger military factional support than him in the running right now. Not to mention Damar had made no effort in the past few days, with all these different dice rolling, to improve or shore up his position, spending his time in the sparse set of quarters which had been assigned to him when Dukat had taken control of the Union.

The blood swirls, forming a tornado before coagulating into a Kelpien body, the Founder choosing to grow feathers from the sockets where eyeballs would normally form.

“Damar is a known quantity. His psychographic profile shows he responds well to authority and he is faultlessly loyal to the Cardassian State. Do you question my decision?” The feathers wiggle in Weyoun’s direction.

“No! Never Founder. This will…require some intervention however. Gul Damar is not one of the current front runners.”

The Kelpien’s belly splits open, organs spilling out with a wet squelching noise as they hit the floor. A little blood splatters on Weyoun’s trouser leg, immediately sliding back towards the Founder when she shifts again into a huge gaping mouth.

“That is why I have you, Weyoun.” The mouth smiles, teeth shifting around, falling out on the floor and growing back in repeating cycles, “I know you’ll do what has to be done to effect my will. The next leader of Cardassia will be Gul…no, _Legate_ Damar.”

The mouth becomes a vulva. Weyoun averts his eyes to the floor. “Yes Founder. I will start immediately.”

“Very good. I knew I could count on you, my dear Weyoun.”

Weyoun feels hands on either side of his head. He looks up and sees the Founder has returned to the form she often adopts when she appears in public here, though she has chosen to forgo clothing for now, and an intimidatingly large phallus now hangs between her legs. She leans in and blesses his forehead with a dry kiss.

“With the wormhole closed, our position here is considerably more precarious,” she whispers into his skin, hands exerting more pressure on either side of Weyoun’s head, he tries not to flinch or struggle, “Do you understand?”

“Yes! Yes Founder, I do!”

“Then you’ll do what needs to be done?”

“Always!”

“Very good.” She releases him. Weyoun stumbles backwards, blinking as fireworks go off behind his eyes, the blood pumping loudly inside his skull.

“That is all. Report to me when your work is done.”

Weyoun’s hands shake as he adopts the posture of thanks and understanding. “Thank you, Founder.”

~*~*~

In the end, the Founder’s orders were easier to carry out than Weyoun had previously through they would be. He spends several hours in prayer and fasts for a day as penance for his even momentary doubt in her wisdom, she had truly forseen the correct answer to the Cardassian Union’s brief vacuum of leadership.

The two Guls who were Dukat’s obvious successors within the military leadership structure, Lora and Tule, ended up taking each other out of contention with barely any help from him at all, their bitter rivalry eclipsing their sense: one ending up exiled to one of the Cardassian colonies closest to Breen space and the other forced into early retirement. The only other contender was a civilian leader who was popular among the working people of Cardassia but sadly lacking in that all important military support. He was found dead in the bed of his lover on the same day that Lora left for his exile, something Weyoun only wished he had thought of himself. Lora was a remarkably petty man, even for a Cardassian.

With all the other pieces falling off the board, it was easy for Damar to climb the ladder that chaos had provided for him, though the climb seemed reluctant on his part. He makes no move until the puppet Detapa Council calls on him the second time to serve the Union. Several impassioned speeches are made and riotous applause is heard when he ascends the dais to accept this heaviest of burdens.

Weyoun is in one of the public galleries when this pageant occurs, clapping politely. He looks around and realises the Cardassians, whether through oversight or as a result of their very strict and narrow ideas of masculinity, have placed him into one of the women’s galleries (tch, he should have known not to mention to Gul Rusot how interested he was in the biological sciences and cloning technology).

Damar looks up towards the galleries and must spot him. Speaking over the applause he makes a show of thanking the Union’s allies from the Gamma Quadrant, knowing with their support (and here he gestures towards Weyoun) they will soon bring the Federation to heel and end this pointless war.

The applause that follows this is almost deafening. Several young women turn towards him, smiling widely and bowing as they clap. Weyoun looks around, realising all the women in this gallery are young, wearing soft, pale colours and expensive looking jewellery. Oh _wonderful_. He’s not even in the wives’ box, he’s in the mistresses’ box! He makes a quick note to himself to have Rusot killed.

He plasters a smile on his face and steps to the front of the gallery, bowing deeply in response to Damar’s acknowledgment. The applause for him is perhaps not quite as rapturous, but it is still there. Damar’s eyes find Weyoun’s from the dais and he nods his head slightly, holding his gaze for just a moment longer than he has to, before returning to his first speech as Legate.

Weyoun blinks, then steps back into the cloud of chiffon and perfume that makes up the box. His head cocks to the side, considering many things.

There is always power to be found in being underestimated.

~*~*~

There are many demands on the new Legate’s time so Weyoun does not get a chance to speak to Damar for some days. Instead he reports to the Founder that her will has been done.

“Very good, Weyoun,” a swarm of Skeflian swamp flies answers him, their chromatic wings fluttering against the skin of his face and neck, “I knew you would have no trouble at all. Now, we must consolidate our position. We require considerable amounts of ketracel-white to maintain the Jem’Hadar forces we have stationed here. Have Damar begin negotiations for an armistice with the Federation but _ensure_ that we maintain access to the Kabrel System…”

Weyoun does not doubt or question any of the Founder’s orders this time. She has proven her infinite wisdom and he is but a vessel of her will. When she asks him to ‘ensure Damar’s continued compliance’ he bows his head in understanding, opening his mouth only to allow one of the flies to exit after crawling up his nostril.

“You know what that means, don’t you?” the vine of a Lawyer’s Cane plant tilts Weyoun’s head up, it’s harsh barbs pricking at his skin, scratching but not bleeding (she doesn’t like to see him bleed, a tasteless reminder of his imperfection).

“Yes Founder.”

“Of course you do. You have always been my most faithful servant,” her voice seems to whisper directly in his ear, the tendrils of her plant form whipping around in the air, “Do not allow yourself to be too tempted by the base pleasures of solidity. Remember our Laws in this regard. They will guide you in this task.”

“I will meditate on them tonight,” he promises.

“Make sure you do. That is all.”

His posture as he backs from her room is that of wonder and obedience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Female founder voice: Which psycho-sexual horrors would you like to see today? All of them? I heard all of them. 
> 
> So my initial idea for this fic was going to be a lot more Founder-lady focused but, as is often the case, things took a different turn. I always find it sad that DS9's special effects budget was so small (and limited by the technology of the times) that they couldn't have gone all out with the weird and horrific nature of the Founders, there's so much potential there, so this fic is my attempt to play with some of that potential.


	2. The Perfect Family

Damar groans and retches a final time into the toilet, finishing it with a painful cough. He hears movement behind him, another pair of boots on the bathroom floor.

“Can he even get on the stage?”

“Of course he can! Just get that doctor in here.” Rusot’s voice, snapping.

He feels a hand grab the back of his uniform and pull him into a roughly standing position. The room spins, or maybe he’s turned around, it’s hard to tell.

“Just had a few too many before lunch, isn’t that right, old friend?” Rusot’s face gradually comes into focus, his hand gripping Damar’s chin firmly to turn his head from side to side, peering into bleary eyes. Damar tries to respond, point out that ‘before lunch’ is perhaps putting too fine a point on drinking for two days straight. He wants to beg Rusot to put a stop to this farce, but all that comes out of his mouth is some strangled groaning. There is a roaring in his ears.

“Quick shower, a little pick me up from the doctor and you’ll be in fighting shape in no time.”

Hands come from somewhere and Damar is stripped with military efficiency, then shoved into the refresher. He isn’t sure if he’s grateful that someone (probably some poor recently promoted glinn) joins him in there, giving him a utilitarian, if thorough, scrubbing. He knows he wouldn’t be able to do it by himself. A toothbrush is placed in his hand and he at least manages to do that without any assistance.

When he stumbles out from the refresher the doctor is there, and he regrets letting himself be put under cold water. It’s sobered him up enough to feel the hot curl of shame in his belly as the middle aged woman looks him over and clearly finds him wanting, pulling a series of hypos out of her medkit.

Someone brings in a chair for Damar to sit on. Rusot and her talk over his head, Damar is incidental to the whole process.

“I sincerely hope I’m not going to be called on to administer this kind of care regularly. It doesn’t speak well for the future of the Union.”

A hypo pinches at Damar’s neck just to the inside of one of his sensitive neck ridges with no warning and he jerks away. Rusot grabs his head and holds him in place.

“You’ll do as you’re ordered and keep your mouth shut, woman.”

Another few hypos are administered. The fog begins to clear, Damar blinks and can suddenly make out the pattern on the tiles of the bathroom, the embroidery around the edge of the doctor’s tunic. He speeds through the states of sobering up, a splitting headache blooming monstrously in his skull within seconds.

“My head…ah State above…my head.”

Another hypo and the feeling passes, leaving an absence in its wake. An absence that fills quickly, like water loosed from a dam into a dry lake, with the knowledge of what’s about to happen to him. He tries to say something but his mouth still moves slowly.

He grabs at Rusot’s chest plates, trying to get someone to pay attention to him, to understand how he doesn’t want this! He doesn’t deserve it! Someone has to stop to it before it goes too far. The roaring in his ears increases.

“Yes, yes, we’ve got a fresh uniform for you coming right now.”

The last hypo bites into Damar’s neck and this one sends liquid fire through his veins. His heart starts to beat like he’s run a marathon (or shot a child) and he finds himself breathing heavily.

“What was that last one?” Rusot’s voice drifts to his ears from far away.

“A stimulant,” the doctor starts packing up her bag, “give him 10 minutes to get over the hump and he should be functional enough to give a speech. Don’t expect great rhetoric though.”

“Noted.”

The doctor leaves and Rusot stays, oiling and combing Damar’s hair into place, an uncomfortably intimate gesture, especially considering how naked Damar still is.

“There. Isn’t that better? No need to be nervous.”

The laughter bubbles out of Damar before he can stop it. It’s so funny all of a sudden. Hilarious. He betrayed his mentor and closest friend, killed a little girl in cold blood, and now he gets to be lead the Cardassian Union. What a laugh! When the historians come to write his story it will be the greatest comedy in the Cardassian canon. People will die laughing as they turn the pages, just as quickly as a phaser blast to the chest knocks someone onto the ground.

He’s still laughing when they start to pull clothes on him. “I’m not nervous,” he tells Rusot, saying it over and over again just so he’s clear. He’s ready. He’s prepared. He’s going to be the Legate. This is destiny. It’s so simple now.

“Can you read this?” A PADD is shoved into his hands.

“Counsellors! This is a day which marks a turning point in our history! A day I never thought would see me stand…”

“Good, good. See? All ready to go.”

He doesn’t know what he was so worried about. Yes, he’s ready.

He blinks and finds he is waking down the halls of the Detapa Council building. His name is being chanted through the halls. The roaring in his ears is back and this time it’s applause. Rusot stops him at the entrance to the Hall of Councillors, waiting for just the right moment, for the hysteria to reach its peak, before letting him go.

Focused and certain, Damar takes the stage…

~*~*~

The crash brings a low as equivalently devastating as the high had been euphoric. Damar spends the better part of the day after his investiture in bed with a drip in his arm. The doctor (the same one as before) explains he is severely dehydrated and exhausted. The dehydration is understandable, her drug cocktail did make him metabolise all the alcohol in his system at a remarkable rate, sucking a lot of the moisture out of his cells at the same time. The exhaustion is less so…

“When was the last time you slept? Without the help of kanar,” she asks, crossing her arms.

Damar shrugs, afraid to open his mouth in case everything comes out. In case he admits it’s been weeks since he’s slept properly, that he rarely feels the need to until he’s almost dead on his feet, that even when he tries to sleep the moment he closes his eyes he hears Dukat screaming and sees Ziyal still and lifeless on a metal floor.

The doctor sighs when it becomes clear Damar isn’t feeling talkative. She leaves him with some sedatives which he sweeps into the drawer of his bedside table the moment she’s out of the room.

The next day they bring his wife and son. He poses with them for photos which are quickly sent out to all the news services. The Central Command is clearly very happy to have a leader they can parade around as a proper family man, Dukat’s indiscretions (not to mention his very public and messy divorce) making that impossible during his rule.

After that is done, his son dutifully hands him his latest report card and some paintings. Damar makes appropriate noises of pride and approval, trying to hide his hurt from earlier, when the boy had been too scared to sit on his lap for a photo and had cried, clinging to his mother. How could he blame him? Damar has spent more time in total with some Jem’Hadar than he’s spent with his son.

Later, when the boy is asleep out on a cot in the living room of his new quarters (Damar came back from a meeting yesterday to find all of his things had been moved to a space ‘more fitting of a Legate, sir’), he sits across from his wife, cutting into a zabu steak that tastes of ash. She tells him she’ll be returning to her research facility tomorrow morning.

“Oh. I thought you might stay a few days.”

“I’m really very busy, dear. Besides,” and here she nods her head towards to the living room, “he needs to be back at school.”

“Of course. I understand.”

She wipes her mouth with her napkin, crossing one leg over another and leaning back in her chair to indicate she’s done with dinner, “Have you thought a little about what we talked about last time I was in town?”

Damar looks down at his plate, pushing a few of his vegetables around, eventually burying them in his mashed sweet-root.

“I’ll take that as a no.” His wife sighs, “If you’re not going to do it for yourself, do it for me. People are starting to talk.”

“Weren’t we the ‘perfect Cardassian family’ a few hours ago?” he says sarcastically.

She rolls her eyes, “Don’t be naive. It doesn’t suit you.” She reaches into her bag and pulls out a piece of paper, sliding it across the table, “Here. My friend Mala put this together. They’re all bright girls, I’m sure you’ll find at least one of them to your taste.”

Damar picks up the paper, looking at the list of names and numbers, one of them his apparent future mistress. Once again he finds himself silent. They never used to be like this. True, theirs had been a marriage arranged by a match maker he’d engaged when it became apparent he’d need to marry if he wanted to advance another rank, but at the start at least they had been friends, allies even, as they both climbed their respective career ladders. If they were still like that maybe he’d have the courage to tell her what really happened on Terok Nor, tell her that every time he sees a young woman now he finds something in her face, her dress, the way she wears her hair, that reminds him of Ziyal.

“Not all of them are girls, if that helps at all,” she says after a long pause. She must see the sudden burst of panic on his face, because her next words are a little kinder, her voice a little softer, “I’m not an idiot Damar. And you’re Legate now. I think you’ll find people will be a little more…accommodating of your wants. You should have a little happiness.”

He sighs, telling her he’ll think about it, but that he’s very busy these days. That at least she understands. He offers her his bed which she takes, gently lifting their son off the cot and taking him to sleep in with her. He lays on the couch, waiting for daylight. In the morning after she leaves, the paper she gave him joins the sedatives in his bedside table.

There are a few days where he finds he can bury himself in his work. There are meetings, briefings, memos, strategy, policy, audits, committees, all the interdependent cogs of the State machine which now require his attention. This at least distracts him enough that he is able to sleep a few hours each night, though that is only with the help of generous amounts of kanar.

On the fourth day after his wife’s visit, Damar walks into his quarters and finds a problem he can’t shove into a drawer.

Weyoun sits primly, cross legged on the end of his bed.

“Hello Damar.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rusot: Great speech, my dude. Minor note: you did get a little off track there in the middle and declared yourself 'Queen of the Regnars' but I'm sure no-one noticed. 
> 
> Also, I sincerely promise our two sad-bois will actually speak to each other in the next chapter. Pinky swear.


	3. The Hound and the Slake Moth

The Founders will always provide. These are the words that are whispered into a Vorta’s ear when they are birthed and it is meant to be their final thoughts when they die, particularly in cases where they are required to activate their termination implants. It’s one of the mantras that has always been particularly meaningful to Weyoun, and he often whispers it to himself when he’s feeling troubled, cannot sleep, or cannot calm his mind enough to meditate.

They have provided today, when Weyoun finds that Damar’s new quarters have been left unlocked. It’s so easy for him to slip in unnoticed and have a little poke around before Damar comes back. If Weyoun was hoping for some revelation, an insight into some previously hidden part of Damar’s psyche, he is sadly disappointed however. Damar’s quarters are predictably spare and dull. The only personal items are a few engineering textbooks, one sad non-uniform tunic and pants set, and a single framed photo of a smartly dressed woman holding a small Damar on her hip. Ah, the wife and the son. There is a part on them in Damar’s psychographic profile, right under the ‘sexual confusion and shame’ section.

Weyoun finds himself already bored. Even the drawer of the bedside table, usually a repository of so many sins, only reveals a few sleeves of sleeping pills (untouched) and a scrap of paper with a list of names and numbers on it. How dull. Not even any pornography.

Weyoun sits on the end of the bed, crossing one leg over the other, and waits. He is patient, knows how important it is that he act now. The Dominion is powerful but the bulk of its power is now locked behind the closed Bajoran wormhole. Here they must cooperate with the Cardassians, a notoriously xenophobic people, ones unwilling to admit just how much damage they have taken in the Klingon War and just how dependent they are on the power of the Dominion. In the sprawling maze of the Cardassian central command buildings, influence over Damar, over the course of this war, could slip through his fingers as quickly and easily as sand.

Weyoun shakes his head. It does him no benefit to think of the worst case scenario. Instead, he recites some prayers to himself, remembering, as the Founder instructed him, the Law on Perilous Things, codices three through seven in particular (On the Temptations of Weak and Solid Flesh).

Time passes quickly. He has barely recited the fifth codex to himself when the door opens and Damar walks through, looking tired and weighed down, staring down at a PADD in his hand.

“Hello Damar.”

.

He doesn’t seem to going anywhere so Damar offers Weyoun a drink. The Vorta says he’ll drink anything but kanar so Damar finds himself rooting around in the back of the bar cupboard for the bottle of springwine he thought he saw there last time he’d been running low.

“Here. Complements of the previous occupant of this room.” He wipes a layer of dust off the bottle, then opens it and pours Weyoun a generous amount into a kanar glass, holding it out, “I don’t know if it’s a good vintage, I’m afraid.”

Weyoun smirks. “I wouldn’t worry. Gul Tule had excellent taste in springwine.” He takes a sip, maintaining steady eye contact with Damar, “During the occupation he controlled most of the vineyards on the western continent of Bajor. The production process became a bit of a hobby of his. One I’m sure he’ll have plenty of time to pursue now he’s retired.”

Damar pauses for a moment, then downs his kanar in a single gulp, quickly refiling his glass. So these were Tule’s old rooms. How did Weyoun know that? What else did he know?

He desperately tries to think back to the weeks after they returned to Prime but everything after beaming down from his attack ship is a hazy blur. He has some vague memories of Rusot and his other loyalists coming to speak to him a few times, trying to encourage him to play his hand for the leadership, ‘ _those who don’t ride the hound risk finding themselves between its jaws._ ’ Then there had been some sort of scandal between Tule and that bitter old vole Lora…then had someone died? Lora? No, he was exiled…

He feels a hand on his arm and turns suddenly. Weyoun is standing so close to him.

The Vorta’s voice is a lulling whisper, “I’ve been meaning to tell you how much I enjoyed your speech before the Council. I have to say I was surprised, before now I never thought you were one for stirring rhetoric.”

The mention of the stirring speech he apparently gave (one he can barely remember) is a sour taste in Damar’s mouth and he washes it away quickly with another shot of kanar. His head feels a little light, the alcohol hitting him harder than he expected it to. He shouldn’t have skipped lunch today…

Almost of their own volition, his eyes wander to the length of Weyoun’s neck, un-ridged and defenceless, pale as the Bone Moon, unquestionably alien. Weyoun catches his look and tilts his head slightly to the side. A flirtatious move, practically an invitation…from a Cardassian. Weyoun is absolutely not a Cardassian, a fact Damar is painfully aware of.

Damar clears his throat, mentally shaking himself. He focuses on the bottom of his glass, filling it again as he feels heat rising in his face. It’s not the first time he’s been caught staring at Weyoun, just the first time by the Vorta himself.

He waits for the laughter, or maybe some sneering remark. Dukat had laughed, in that condescending way he had sometimes (a lot of the time). He’d thrown an arm across Damar’s shoulders, telling him to save his energy and apply his interests elsewhere.

_“Find yourself a dabo girl, Damar, and save yourself a lot of trouble. That one’s legs are closed tighter than a Kai’s.”_

“Damar,” Weyoun’s soft voice comes to him, he’s still standing so close, “Is something wrong?”

“No. Everything’s fine,” Damar snaps and steps back, heading for the couch. He sits on the edge of it, unable to properly relax while still wearing his armour. He tries to think of anything to change the subject, “We haven’t really had much of a chance to speak since the return to Prime. Is everything to yours and the Founder’s liking? Your quarters…the food?”

“Oh yes, everything is…satisfactory,” Weyoun’s head tilts in the other direction, watching from where he’s standing, “The Founder is very pleased with the size of her quarters. The extra space gives her plenty of room to exercise.”

“And your quarters?” Damar reaches to his side, trying and failing to undo the clasps on the side of his armour. Why is he bothering? He’s not going to sleep tonight anyway.

“I like them. The rug in front of the heater has a very interesting texture. It’s nice to lie on.” Weyoun sips more springwine, following Damar to the couch, “You don’t look very comfortable, Damar. Would you like a hand with those?”

Before he can respond, Damar feels warm fingers at his side, making quick work of the clasps. He ducks his head slightly and slips the plates over his head, not bothering with the clasps on the other side and just sliding them down and off his other arm. They hit the ground with a familiar clatter and Damar feels like he can breathe out for the first time all day. His spine can finally bend in all the ways it wants to and he slouches back onto the couch.

“There. Isn’t that better?” Weyoun sits back himself, tucking his feet up under him.

Damar can’t help himself, finding himself staring again. In his mind’s eye he sees himself running a hand down Weyoun’s arm, the Vorta not moving away.

Weyoun shifts a little closer, “Damar, I’m aware we haven’t exactly been…friends before now, but I want that to change. I think we can have a very productive working relationship. The Founder sees a great deal of potential in you.”

“She does, does she?”

“Oh yes,” that whispering, _wheedling_ , voice is back and Weyoun’s hand finds his way to his chest, “She sees greatness in you, Damar. Dukat was erratic, self-obsessed…he had never thought of anything but his interests. You’re different, I know you love Cardassia, that you only want it to be restored to the greatness it deserves.”

Any momentary desire Damar felt shrivels and dies at the mention of Dukat. He looks down at that pale little hand. The water stills and everything becomes clear. Damar cannot stop himself from chuckling.

“Tell me, Weyoun, does your home planet have any moons?”

Weyoun looks confused, thrown off by the interruption, but answers anyway, “Kurill Prime has seven, but I admit I’ve never seen them.”

“Prime has two, but you can only see that one there at the moment.” He points out the window at the crescent of a red moon that hangs, sharp as a knife, over the city of Lakar. “That’s Blood. The other one is called Bone. It should start to wax in the next few days.”

“Interesting,” Weyoun squints to look out the window, “Blood and Bone, one always following the other…”

“Mmm, just like life and death. Bone is the most beautiful, if you listen to the poets,” Damar takes a hold of Weyoun’s chin, gently tilting his head from side to side, “Beautiful but dead. Dangerous.”

Weyoun meets his gaze, steady but on edge now. Perhaps he’s remembering he hasn’t bought any Jem’Hadar with him to this meeting.

“Is that what you think I am, Damar?” His voice is no longer that breathy whisper, “Dead? I regret to inform you I’m very much alive.”

He places a pale hand over Damar’s and moves the hand on his chin down slightly, to his neck, where Damar can feel the fluttering rhythm of Weyoun’s pulse.

“I don’t think you’re dead. I think you’re dangerous.”

Weyoun leans into Damar’s hand ( _it would be easy, so easy, to squeeze that pallid throat_ ), “Do I seem dangerous now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Maybe you should find out.”

His other hand grips Weyoun’s wrist, pulling him closer. That’s all it takes to shatter the last of his resolve.

.

Weyoun crows internally as Damar half carries and half drags him to the bed. His shirt rips as it’s pulled off, other clothes following, the night air cool on his skin as he’s shoved naked on the bed.

“Is this what you want?” Damar snarls, “Is this what your God wants?” For us to be such good friends?”

“She only wants Cardassia to be restored to its true glory. As do I.”

Damar undoes his pants, panting, reaching a hand inside them, “You’re such a clever little liar, aren’t you? So good at saying what you think everyone wants to hear.”

He bends over Weyoun on the bed, bracing himself with one arm, the other still working inside his pants. Weyoun looks up at the ceiling, ready. This he is used to. The act itself has always been perfunctory…distant…of no more concern to him than the bee is to flower. Weyoun usually finds something interesting to look at on the ceiling, makes lists of things to do after he’s finished, or chooses something to count around the room until they’re finished.

No further touch comes however. Damar grunts, looking down at his crotch. Something isn’t working. Weyoun props himself up on his elbows.

“Would you…like me to do something?”

Damar’s head bows, Weyoun can no longer see his face. He tries putting a hand on a ridged shoulder.

“Get out.” Damar’s voice is husky, tight.

“What?”

“I said get. _out_.”

Then Damar is off him, stumbling over to a chair in the corner on his bedroom and sinking into it, head in his hands. Weyoun is at a loss. He’s never…this has never happened before. Has he failed? The Founder won’t accept failure again, not after what happened with Dukat ( _if he’d just tried harder, distracted him from that Bajoran woman_ ), she’ll be furious.

A sob works its way out of Damar’s throat, head still in his hands. Weyoun, still confused, gets up and walks over, getting on his knees in front of the Cardassian and placing a hand over his.

“Damar, what’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong…please.”

There is a moment, a battle, where Damar tries to keep it all in, where it seems like everything Damar has hidden will stay tucked away inside. It’s a battle he loses.

“I killed her,” the words vomit out, barely comprehensible, “I shot her in the chest. I killed that girl because she wouldn’t leave with us…because she helped her friends. She didn’t know what she was doing. She was a child.” Another painful, wracking sob. “I killed her. I killed her.”

He repeats the words over and over again. Weyoun crawls up into Damar’s lap, feels arms wrap around him, a head on his chest, hot tears on his skin. Weyoun realises he’s making soft shushing noises, rocking Damar slightly, like he would a child, running a hand over his hair. This seems to comfort him.

“You did what you had to do,” Weyoun tilts Damar’s head up, looking into bloodshot exhausted eyes, “She made her choices, so did you.” He leans in and kisses him, softly, “Nothing can be done about either now.”

Damar looks at him desperately, as if he wants to believe what Weyoun is saying, kisses him again, arms tightening.

“You and I, we can end this war, Damar. No other child will have to die because of this terrible conflict. The Dominion will bring order to this quadrant. Peace.”

“Peace…” Damar repeats the word. A question, a promise, a wish.

“Yes, we will all have peace Damar.”

Another kiss, deeper now, and Weyoun moves from sitting sideways to straddling him, grinding down. It’s easy now, so easy, for Damar’s body to react to him, to slip inside him. Damar’s eyes close and he holds on tighter, letting Weyoun take the lead.

It’s not meant to be done like this. He has always been taught to be passive, to receive. To not take too much and too greedily. Sin is the companion of pleasure. But in this moment, Weyoun finds he doesn’t care. He’s so full, Damar rubs inside him in such a new and exciting way, and he’s in control, he sets the pace, takes what he needs. It’s intoxicating.

Damar groans into his shoulder and all of a sudden his teeth have closed around Weyoun’s collarbone. The squeal that comes out of Weyoun’s mouth is a surprise. He grinds down harder, faster, needing more. His fingernails dig into neck ridges and he’s rewarded with a breathy hiss.

Oh and then…and then…it happens. The thing. The terrible thing. The roar and whisper. It blooms from something small and hidden within him, radiating outward and making his hands clench on Damar’s back, curling in to his body, a gasping whine coming from somewhere.

By the time he comes back to himself Damar is finished, if the mess between his legs is anything to go by. The arms around him are no longer tight and Weyoun lets out a shaking breath, stumbling to the bathroom to clean himself up. He finds a washcloth and runs it under the tap, wiping it briskly over his opening, trying to ignore how swollen and tender it feels. There is a mirror but he doesn’t look in it. Seeing himself will make it real.

He comes and out and starts picking up his clothes, readying himself to leave. His work is done, for now at least. He will return tomorrow when Damar is in a more coherent state to pass on the Founder’s orders. He leans down to pick up his shirt when a grey skinned hand encircles his wrist.

“Stay,” Damar whispers, not meeting his eyes, “Just for a little while…please.”

Weyoun pauses but nods. Just for a little while.

An arm drapes over him as he lays down in bed, the blanket pulled up over them both. A hand rests on his chest, fingers brushing against the bite mark on his collarbone. Damar falls asleep almost instantly, breath deepening and the tension in his body uncoiling. Weyoun promises he will only close his eyes for moment…

He sleeps too long…and yet somehow not enough. The Blood Moon has faded to a pale pink in the early morning light when he opens his eyes again. Damar has rolled over in his sleep, snoring lightly. Weyoun moves silently, stopping suddenly at the sore twinge between his legs. He reaches down. Everything feels fine. Still tender perhaps, swollen a little…but fine. His hand shakes when he pulls it from under the covers.

He slides out from under the blanket, gathering up his clothes from where they fell on the floor. He catches sight of himself in the mirror on the wall and his eyes zero in on the bite mark Damar left him. He touches it, pressing his finger to the purple-black bruise that has blossomed around it, taking a shuddering breath at the pleasure and pain it brings him.

Shame follows close on pleasure’s heels, as it always has. He shakes himself, looking away. He has stayed too long, allowed himself to be distracted from his purpose.

He will bathe. That’s what he needs. A bath, his own bed, time in prayer. That will re-centre him. Then he will be cleansed…purified…and can attend on the Founder. She will want a report. He dresses and slips wraith-like out of Damar’s rooms, not looking back.

He stops short as he turns a corner into the hallway outside his quarters. One of the Jem’Hadar Rexes, the Founder’s personal guard, is standing outside his door.

“The Founder asks for you, Vorta.”

Weyoun draws himself up to his full height. He is not intimidated by a Jem’Hadar, even if he is an Honoured Rex.

“Very good. I will bathe before I attend her.”

The Rex grabs his arm and pulls him along the hall. “No. She commands you be brought immediately.”

He is dragged down the hall to the Founder’s rooms and thrown through the doors, the Rex not following and turning back to join his partner outside the door.

Weyoun looks around, the Founder is not immediately apparent. She could be anywhere though, perched upon one of the rafters, scurrying through the carpet, in the very air around him perhaps. He adopts the posture of patience and adoration, trying to stay his trembling.

There is a growl, low and threatening, and a huge riding hound emerges from the darkness in the corners. He bows his head, whispering her name.

“Weyoun. I have been waiting.” The voice is deep, emanating from somewhere in the hound’s chest. The hound doesn’t blink or seem to breathe, its features flat, as if painted on. Weyoun begs forgiveness, he knows she is already agitated, her forms are only this imperfect when she’s upset.

“Have you seen to the new Legate?”

“Yes, Founder.”

“And?”

“He is under control.”

The hound shimmers and ripples, its features springing to life. The eyes focus in on him and breath huffs from its nose. She circles him, sniffing around his neck, his chest, his groin. Weyoun stiffens. She will know. She will smell it on him.

“Has he agreed to the armistice?”

“I…I did not have a chance to discuss…”

Suddenly Weyoun is on his back, staring at the ceiling. Pain blooms in his chest where she rammed into him, throbs in his wrist where he fell on it (later he will find out its broken). The hound’s jaws are around his throat, razor sharp teeth pressing threateningly against vulnerable skin.

“No chance to discuss! No chance to discuss?! Do you have any idea of what is at stake?”

“Please! Founder, let me explain…” he begs, tears in his eyes.

“And you attend me like this? _Stinking_ of sin. I can smell it, you know! What have I done to deserve such unfaithfulness?” Her voice booms now, the closest he has ever heard it here to her true form, how she sounds when she is part of the Link.

“Nothing Founder! Nothing! I wished to purify myself before I attended you but the Rex…”

The teeth sink deeper into his neck, “Do not shift your sin to the Jem’Hadar! You are Vorta, chosen amongst all our servants for greatness. And this is how we are repaid?”

He weeps openly, begging the Founder again for forgiveness. He’s sorry! So sorry! He does not deserve to be in her presence. If she will only let him live he will leave immediately and not return until her will is complete. He will not be distracted again. He promises. He swears.

The teeth withdraw. There is a beat of silence and when Weyoun has the courage to open one eye he sees the hound is sitting back on its haunches, head cocked to the side. Its features are flat and empty again, she is thinking.

“Distracted? How were you distracted?”

He looks down, taking a moment to pull himself into a kneeling position, sore wrist held close to his chest, “I…I have fallen from the correct path. One of the perilous temptations…” He hopes she doesn’t ask him to explain more, he isn’t sure he can form the words. The bite and its surrounding bruise throb under his shirt.

“My dear Weyoun…” He does not look up until he feels arms wrap around him, colder than Damar’s, cold as only a Founder’s can be, “Do not worry yourself, I understand. I too have…known the temptations of solidity.”

“You, Founder?”

“Yes. When we lived on Terok Nor. Odo has spent far too long among the solids here…” she says cryptically, suddenly far away. Her voice has returned to its more common timbre, “…but that is not your concern. Just know, I do not blame you for your weakness. You are such a faithful servant, I sometimes forget you are solid as well.”

“And Solidity is weakness,” Weyoun whispers, knowing well the prayer.

“This is true. You have done well though, and so quickly too. I’m…pleased. Take a few days for yourself.”

Another arm grows out of her shoulder and tilts his head up, wiping away the tears that have caught on his eyelashes. She kisses him, a gentle pressing of her lips to his, then pulls away suddenly, upper lip curling.

“You stink of kanar…and Cardassian. Bathe.”

Weyoun wipes his cheek, “Yes Founder.”

“You are dismissed. Do not bother me for the rest of the day. I wish to fly.”

She transforms into an Aunkish slake moth, spreading her hypnotic rainbow wings to their full four meter span. Weyoun falls to the ground prostrate (as he knows he must after disappointing her), daring to look up only when she had wriggled a boneless body through one of the high windows at the top of her chamber.

He rushes out to the balcony, watching hypnotised as his God circles over the Central Command building, alighting her feathery tendrils on a spire only momentarily, before catching an updraft of hot morning air and spreading her wings wide to see the world as only a God can.

He falls to his knees to pray. Not moving for many hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took a lot longer than I thought it would to get out. This took a lot of rewrites, I think mostly because I wrote myself into a bit of a corner with Damar's characterization, he's a bit too sad and drunk in this version to end up doing a lot of my original ideas for this fic.
> 
> On the other hand though, I'm thinking of turning this into a bit of a series. I have a lot of scraps of ideas and places I want to take this, but they didn't end up working with the three chapter limit I set myself. What will Weyoun do now he's got a day off, I hear you asking. What are Rusot and Dr F'eelguhd (I've decided that's her name) up to? All these questions and more will be answered next time!
> 
> Also, if anyone else recognises slake moths and where I shamelessly stole them from, I will love you forever.


End file.
